Beau tilts his head slightly.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
Dante lets out a weak laugh that turns into a cough. “Even if I told you, you wouldn’t make it out alive.”
Beau walks toward him without responding.
He grabs Dante by the hair and yanks his head sideways. Dante tries to twist away, but the zip ties hold him tight against the chair.
The knife flashes once.
Dante’s scream tears through the music as Beau slices clean through the cartilage of his ear. Blood pours down the side of his neck while the severed piece of flesh hits the concrete with a wet slap.
Beau picks it up and holds it up between two fingers, studying it for a moment.
Then he leans down until his mouth is next to Dante’s remaining ear.
“Since you’re not hearing us clearly,” Beau laughs, “I had to check for myself.”
Luke’s presence flickers faintly at the back of my mind, not loud yet. Just watching.
Dante’s scream tears through the warehouse.
“MY EAR. YOU CUT OFF MY FUCKING EAR!”
His body thrashes violently against the zip ties. The metal chair rattles against the bolts in the concrete as blood pours down the side of his neck and soaks into his collar. His breath comes out in broken, panicked gasps while he tries to twist away from Beau.
Beau holds the severed ear between two fingers, turning it slowly like he is examining a strange coin. Blood drips from it in thick, slow drops that hit the floor beside Dante’s boots.
Dante gags and shakes his head, trying to focus through the pain.
Beau laughs as he holds the severed ear close to his mouth.
“Can you hear me now, Dante?”
He flicks his wrist and tosses the ear forward. It slaps wetly against Dante’s cheek and slides down into his lap.
Dante gags again, his stomach heaving.
I step forward behind him.
Dante lifts his head slowly, one eye already swelling shut.
“You’re wasting your time,” he rasps.
“No,” I say. “You’re wasting mine.”
I exhale smoke toward the ceiling and let my gaze drop to the table positioned directly in front of him.
Blades. Pliers. Lighter. Needles. Belt. Wire cutters. Bone saw. Salt.
Everything is laid out with intention. Nothing hidden. Nothing accidental.
His eyes track each item despite himself. His shoulders tighten. The chair creaks softly as he shifts.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he spits, forcing the words out.
I step closer. “Yeah. That’s fair. I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of guys like me, tall, tattooed, pissed off, making threats they never follow through on.”
